


Wherever You Go, There You Are

by fangirl_squee



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Fix-It, SPOILERS FOR PARTIZAN EPISODE 28
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25547506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl_squee/pseuds/fangirl_squee
Summary: Clem, in the wreckage, after the storm.
Relationships: Gucci Garantine/Clementine Kesh
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	Wherever You Go, There You Are

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU CLICKED ON THIS FIC AND YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED PARTIZAN EPISODE 28 THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS.

The moment Gur pushes her off the edge, the world slows for a moment. Clem feels herself fall, tipping beyond the point of no return and thinks  _ no, I refuse, absolutely not _ and she pushes her body forward, her arms slamming down onto the outer edge of Fort Icebreaker.

There’s a pause, and then Gur leans over the edge, worry visible even through the storm. It’s the worry, the concern, oddly enough, that makes rage spike in her. She reaches for the knife in her boot, pulling herself up with a yell.

She’s as good at the ensuing fight as she’s ever been in any fight, physical or otherwise, which is to say holding her own surprisingly well but every small victory coming at a cost - she slashes Gur across the chest only because he has her pinned through the shoulder, she manages to knock him back only by propelling herself back as well.

They teeter together, for a moment, on the edge.

And then she falls.

She can see Gur, their long limbs pulling them back on board. This time, they do not look back down for her.

She closes her eyes before she hits the water.

  
  


(Later, weeks later, Gucci will be reviewing the security footage in a vague attempt to use her downtime for something useful, and she will think, distantly, that Clementine looks more fierce in this particular fight than she ever has in battle. She will watch as Gur Sevraq digs the points of their limbs into the hard metal of Fort Icebreaker’s deck to stop themselves from falling as Clem slips over the edge. The footage is too blurry to read their expression as they limp away.

Gucci saves a copy of the footage for herself and deletes the file. Gur Sevraq is a powerful figure, but you never knew when you might need to use certain information.)

  
  


The water is  _ freezing _ . Clem bursts to the surface, the rain stinging her face as she gasps for air. Her shoulder throbs with every movement of her arm, her other limbs working double time to keep herself afloat.

She can still see Fort Icebreaker, close enough that she could reach it for all the good it would do her. There are no openings at sea level by design, and she has nothing with her to haul herself back on-board. Even if she still had her knife, it would have broken against the smooth metal side of the ship before she’d hauled herself up even an inch.

She catches sight of something through the rain, enough to remind her - Gucci’s fleet of boats, crowding the waters around them. She swims out, gritting her teeth with every slow stroke, trying not to think too hard about how she can’t actually see her final destination. She’ll either make it to a boat or she’ll make it to the shore, but she  _ will _ make it.

Eventually, miraculously, her hand hits damp wood.

It’s covered lifeboat, no doubt come loose during the storm, the ropes tied to it barely connecting it to the larger ship it’s next to. Clem fumbles with the fastenings, her cold fingers slipping and she grabs out at the boat to stop it from bobbing away. She gets one undone, and then another, enough for her to pull herself up and wiggle her way inside.

The inside of the lifeboat isn’t any warmer but it is dryer. She lies on the uncomfortable bottom of the lifeboat for a moment, her ragged breathing loud in the small space. She forces herself up, crouched under the cover, and fumbles around in the darkness, finding first a blanket, then a torch, and then a tiny first aid kit. 

She wiggles out of her soaked jacket, blinking at the wound in her shoulder under the thin beam of light. Probably, it needs stitches. She doesn't know how to do that, not really. She could probably figure it out, but the kit only barely has the basics and so Clem cleans the wound as much as she can with the little antiseptic spray and wraps it in bandages until she can’t see the blood.

“Right,” says Clem, her voice too much of a rasp to comfort herself.

She rubs a hand over her face, a wave of dizziness making her reach out to steady herself on the floor. Probably the blood loss, she thinks, and pokes around the lifeboat to see if she can find any kind of other supplies. There’s a small tin full of very dry, salty crackers and a single bottle of water. Clem eats two of the crackers and drinks about half the water as she looks through the rest of the boat.

The other supplies on the lifeboat are a little more unusual. It feels almost like the ship was used as additional storage for the raids, small boxes of odds and ends crowding the space. Compact mirrors, three chefs mallets, a box of organic food dye, and a large waterproof coat that looked as though it had been left behind by whoever had owned the boat before Gucci.

Clem surveys her finds. Not a particularly solid start for the building of her empire, but something, at least. Now what she needed was a plan. A carefully planned revenge. A series of strategic victories until everyone begged for her forgiveness.

She stares blankly at the small overing in the lifeboat’s covering until her eyes slip closed, having not come up with any sort of plan at all.

Her dreams are swirling, nauseating things. The Panther as a living creature ripping the thrones to shreds as the wounds appear on her own body. Gucci, turning away from her, vanishing into a storm. Gur Sevraq, as towering as Fort Icebreaker above her, calling forth a storm to wash her away. Her mother’s eyes on her, unblinking, as Clem tries to speak but she cannot make a sound.

She wakes up with a gasp. Her feet are wet, where the rain’s coming in, and she still has no plan.

Clem bites her lip, risking a glance out of the gap in the lifeboat’s covering. The storm’s still raging. Good cover, probably, for her to… to…

Cruciat. She’ll go to Cruciat.

“They’ll string you up,” Gur had said.

Well, she’d show them. She’ll go there and she’ll be fine and that would show him.

Well. Perhaps she’ll wear a disguise too. Just in case.

She looks over the supplies again. They’re not exactly a perfect disguise kit, but perhaps… she sniffs the food dye, putting a test drop on her finger, staining her skin a deep blue. Clem grins to herself. There, of course. She’ll dye her hair and wear the big coat, and no one will recognise her.

The dying process is much more difficult than Clem had anticipated, turning much of her neck and shoulders blue as well as she leans over the ocean and tries to squirt the dye into her hair. The effect on her hair, after she rinses it in seawater, is more silver than blue. Clem examines herself in one of the compact mirrors. It will work well enough, at least for the moment. 

As the sun begins to rise faintly under the still-raging storm, Clem unties her lifeboat from the ship it’s anchored to and slowly rows towards shore. Her shoulder spikes with pain, and Clem grits her teeth. She just has to get to shore. Once she gets to Cruciat it will all be easier.

Cruciat is in ruins.

She’d known it, of course, had seen the destruction from Fort Icebreaker and watched the footage, but it was another thing entirely to see it from the street. The gilded arch over the pier is still smoking despite the rain. Clem looks at it for a long moment before she steps away, her stomach churning.

It’s a longer walk to the palace than she remembers, possibly because she’s only ever been driven to it before. She passes by buildings shs known, halls that were once filled with dancing that are now no more than rubble, grand old houses who’s stained glass windows lie in pieces in the streets.

The streets themselves are relatively empty of people, the storm keeping most inside. Those that do pass her don’t give her so much as a second look, too focused on reaching their own destinations as fast as possible. Her disguise, such as it is, remains intact.

The palace itself hasn’t fared much better in the attack. Clem picks her way through the destruction, climbing over fallen beams and stepping around parts where the floor has fallen away entirely, making her way towards the throne room.

She has to know. She has to see it for herself.

Some part of her is hoping it will still be there, that the throne itself will have survived, that it’s importance will have ensured that it remained unharmed through the destruction.

When she reaches it, the throne is in pieces.

The room looks as though a bomb had gone off, which is quite likely exactly what has happened. The delicate paintwork is streaked with ash and half of the wall has crumbled away entirely, letting the rain into the room. The grand portraits that once lined the walls are in a similar state, only a few of them still standing.

Clem’s is one of them, mostly by virtue of being tucked into the corner instead of being part of the main display behind the throne. It’s streaked with burns, almost obscuring the white gown she’s wearing. She remembers that dress, tight and oddly itchy. She remembers Crysanth stopping by, telling her to stop fidgeting. She remembers the ache in her back from holding herself still in the hard, uncomfortable chair until the portrait was done. She remembers that the portrait itself was a great honour, but that it had felt like a punishment.

She reaches up, unhooking the portrait from it’s low spot on the wall and setting it on the ground out of the rain and then turns to step closer to look at the remains of the throne. Only a small part of Kesh’s crest on the back of it is recogniseable, the other half broken away. Clem touches her fingers to it, tracing around the curling lines of the crest as she sits on the cold, damp floor.

She closes her eyes, and tries to imagine the throne whole again under her hands. She’s never had a good imagination. She reaches out blindly until she grasps a small piece of the chair’s arm in her hand, feeling where the elegant curve of the polished wood frays away into nothing.

She’d thought she’d be angrier about it. She’d certainly felt angry about it on Fort Icebreaker, angry and upset and heartbroken at the loss of it. Now she doesn’t feel much of anything at all, just tired and cold, the beginnings of hunger beginning to stir in the pit of her stomach.

There’s a noise outside, voices. Clem’s eyes snap open.

She stands, trying to be as silent as possible. She takes a step towards the door, then pauses, turning back. She picks up her portrait, and sets it down on the remains of the throne, her painted, impassive face turned towards the patch of sky visible through the hole in the roof.

She looks at the painting for a long moment before she turns again, going slowly so she makes little noise on the uneven ground. The voices fade, and Clem lets out a breath. Her stomach growls, and she changes course, heading down towards the kitchens.

It isn’t until she gets there that she realises that she’s still holding on to the fragment of the throne. She stares down at it - it looks small in her hands, like any other piece of wood in the palace. She squeezes it in her hand for a moment, feeling the ragged end of it cut into her palm before she drops it.

It’s just a piece of wood. She can get a piece of wood anywhere.

Clem finds a few things in the kitchen, adding to her small bag of supplies from the lifeboat. Some containers of preserved fruit, some tonic water, a partially-crushed first aid kit, and, most important of all, some clean clothes, tucked away in the head chef’s locker. She changes her clothes, and her bandage, and hangs her old clothes on part of a collapsed table to dry.

Right. Now. To plan.

She discards the obvious options. To return to Millenium Break would be  _ humiliating _ , not to mention life-threatening. To seek asylum with Crysanth, with Kesh was… Well. Safety there was as likely as it was unlikely, and her success would probably depend entirely upon her making the right amount of fuss at the exact right moment. To seek asylum with any  _ other _ Stel would be even more dangerous than returning to Millenium Break would be. It all made revenge feel rather more difficult than it was worth.

Clem sighs. She will just have to bide her time with it, claw her way back a little until she can strike. In the meantime, she’ll have to find a way to get the resources that she’ll need. Clem grins to herself. Easy, and she’ll do it right under their noses, too. 

  
  


(Gucci tours Cruciat to see what they can use, what will be the easiest to repurpose and what will be better to knock down entirely and build over the top of.

She’s alone, when she finds the portrait. It certainly wasn’t sitting there when she and Sovereign Immunity left, and she’s fairly sure none of the people who joined them in storming Cruciat would have put it there.

There’s only one person, in fact, who would have.

Carefully, her hands shaking only a little, she takes the painting and puts it back against the wall. No need for other people to be concerned until she has further proof, of course. That’s just practical.)

  
  


Resources, unfortunately, need money, and with her’s out of reach due to her presumed death, Clem has to resort to joining the lines of people queuing up for work in scrappy, makeshift offices around Cruciat.

The woman she’s assigned to, Merriweather, sits across from Clem, her pen hovering over her datapad. She looks as exhausted as Clem feels.

“Name?”

“Cl- uh, I-” Clem’s mind races. Clementine wasn’t a common enough name to keep her disguise. “Uh. Melc.”

“Melc…?”

Clem tenses, then feels a sudden rush of relief. This, at least, is not a lie. “I uh… My citizenship was revoked.”

Merriweather looks up, sympathy on her face. Clem feels herself tense again, her hand going to the scarf covering her face and tugging it slightly, making sure it’s still in place.

“It’s fine,” says Clem, “It’s… I’m sure I can get it back.”

Merriweather pauses. “I see. I’ll just… perhaps it would be wise if we put down something, as a placeholder. Wouldn’t want you getting into trouble over such a small thing.”

Clem presses her lips together. "I... Farmer, then. Melc Farmer."

Merriweather nods, noting it down. Clem's throat aches, for a moment. She hopes Sovereign Immunity won’t mind her borrowing one of his names. Surely he has so many he won’t ever notice.

“Thank you,” says Clem.

“Of course Melc,” says Merriweather, and moves on to the rest of her questions.

Plans for revenge, such as they are, get put aside in favour of more urgent plans like  _ what to eat _ and  _ where to sleep _ . It feels as though every job, even the ones she is alright at, are hard and dreadfully difficult and, worse of all, no one particularly cares when she  _ does  _ do them well. Perhaps that part is for the best. To be a Kesh in Cruciat, even as the year passes, is still a dangerous position to be in.

She keeps an eye on the news broadcasts, although it’s difficult to watch those she should be above walking out to adoring crowds. It must be done though. Better a little pain than to be caught unawares by their movements.

It is nice, sometimes, to see Gucci again, even if she is standing tall behind Gur Seraq. She feels an itch sometimes, to write to Gucci, to explain, to give some kind of farewell. It would be disastrous for her to be discovered, and dangerous for Gucci too, no doubt, so she holds fast onto her resolve, letting the unwritten words sit in the back of her mind instead, drafting and redrafting as she works.

Unfortunately, it turns out that working is not something she is particularly good at. She’s not very good at cooking, or sewing, or handling the complicated machinery for making weaponry. She’s a good enough sailor but not a very good fisherman, and carrying things from one place to another on building sites is fine but she’s dreadful at putting things together. 

“Perhaps,” says Merriweather, “you would be better served to choose a different line of work. Something with less… fine details and complicated instructions.”

Clem folds her arms. “I can follow instructions.”

Merriweather gives her a crooked smile, looking down at the datapad in front of her. “Not according to anywhere we’ve placed you.”

“So what are you saying,” says Clem, “that’s I’m too  _ difficult _ , that I should just  _ leave _ , is that it? I’m making your job too hard by not fitting  _ perfectly  _ into the-the-the little box that you have for me-”

“That’s not what I’m saying Melc,” says Merriweather, as calm as ever, “Not everybody is good at every kind of job, after all, I’m sure I would be just as bad at being a-” She glances down at Clem’s file. “-a line cook, or a blacksmith. But I’m good at this.”

Clem frowns. “So I should do… what you do?”

“No,” says Merriweather, “Absolutely not.”

Clem hears someone in the next cubicle laugh, and she glares at the small divider.

“I meant you should do something that plays to your strengths, as this job does for me,” continues Merriweather.

Clem folds her arms, sitting back in her chair. “Which are?” 

“Stubbornness,” says Merriweather easily, “and for the job I have for you that's essentially the only real requirement. They’re looking for replacement staff to help with an investigation in the new jungles of Verglaz Taiga. You would be there to assist them in carrying their equipment, and as security against… well. Against anything you can think of, I suppose.”

“Okay,” says Clem slowly, “Wait, replacement staff? What happened to their last security person?”

“They died,” says Merriweather, her tone brisk, “The pay is half up front, half when you get back. If they like you, they’ll keep you on indefinitely.”

“And the pay is…?”

Merriweather turns her datapad around to show Clem. Clem wrinkles her nose, tamping down on the wiggling excitement in the pit of her stomach. It’s the kind of money that promises things to people, which is probably why it’s attached to such a dangerous job. Still, Clem’s sure she can handle it. It’s just walking through a jungle, how hard could that possibly be? It certainly has to be better than the parade of menial, exhausting jobs she's had to work in Cruciat to keep her head above water.

“Fine,” says Clem.

“Excellent,” says Merriweather. She taps something on the datapad, printing out a slip and handing it to Clem. “Take this down to Fawna, and she’ll get you sorted.”

The job of trudging around after researchers turns out to require a little more than sheer stubbornness, but it is that stubbornness that helps Clem to keep moving after hours of walking with a heavy pack weighing her down. The heat of the jungle is amplified by her scarf but she can’t risk taking it off, not when she could still be so easily recognised. 

The group Clem is assigned to don’t like her, although they don’t seem to like each other much either so she figures her cover’s safe enough, especially after they get a new, instantly even more unpopular, research leader. 

For once Clem is in agreement with her companions. Their new research leader reminds her a little too much of her uncle Cynosure, laughing her out of his rooms because he didn’t know any better, only this time what he doesn’t know any better about is where they should set up the tents for the night, even though this is her  _ fourth  _ time now in the jungles of Taiga and  _ his _ first.

“If I have to set everything up,” grumbles Clem, “I don’t see why you won’t listen to me.”

Marriot waves her away. “Just do as I asked Melc. Leave the thinking work to those who can.”

Clem glares at his retreating back and purposely sets his tent closer to the river. Another one of their small group, Hayden, meets her gaze, rolling their eyes, and Clem tentatively smiles under her scarf, hoping the expression shows on the part of her face they can see. It feels easier to brush aside annoyances like Marriot while they're in the jungle. Something about being away from the crowds, surrounded by the thick greenery, makes Clem feel settled, steadier on her feet.

Hayden helps her set up the staff tents a little further away. There’s not many of them this time around, a small group since they’re doing this particular job at the behest of some former Kesh noble with a deep interest in the new wildlife. Clem doesn’t get the details, not that she particularly cares what some traitor to Kesh thinks.

Hayden signs to her, sorting out their night watch, and Clem nods. She’s glad Hayden’s on this particular trip, so that she doesn’t have to organise any of that. Trekking through the jungle with Marriot’s gear is hard enough with administration on top of it.

“If Sota’s fine with it then so am I,” says Clem, signing along with her words.

They nod, heading towards the fire where the other member of their small team, Sota, is cooking something. Clem’s hopes it’s better whatever they cooked last night.

Sota gives her the finger. “Make your own food if you think you can do better.”

Clem laughs, feeling the insult slide off her shoulders and disappear into the jungle around them. “Well that’s not my job, is it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Sota, “Hurry up with those tents, will ya? I don’t want to have to fuck around with them in the dark.”

Clem waves her hand, and turns back to hammering down the tent pegs. It’s a surprisingly meditative activity, so she doesn’t  _ actually _ mind that she’s been the one that does it on their treks. Hammer, then test the tenseness of the rope, hammer, then test, hammer, then-

“Why have you put mine all the way over there?” says Marriot, stomping over, already boiling mad.

Clem sighs. She doesn’t mind the small group, but she is rather coming to  _ hate  _ Marriot. Just because his family owns a boat in Cruciat you’d think he worked for the Princept himself. Although, even if he did, Clem doesn’t think it would improve her opinion of him much.

“Because that’s where you  _ told _ me to put it,” says Clem.

“And why aren’t your’s there too?”

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” says Clem.

“You can’t speak to me that way!” says Marriot.

“It’s possible, I assure you,” says Clem, “It’s actually very easy to speak to you that way.”

Marriot hits her, the blow connecting with Clem’s jaw, her head snapping back. He stares at her, panting, his fists raised as if he expects her to hit him back. Clem considers him carefully, raising her hand to her face to check that her scarf is still in place over the guise of prodding her jaw. The scarf’s fabric has absorbed most of the blow, although the hit was hardly anything compared with her slew of near-death experiences.

She squares her shoulders, looking down her nose at him. After all, she grew up surrounded by people who were just his type. There are things that sting more than a simple blow to the face.

“If that’s  _ truly  _ the best you can do then it’s a good thing I’m here to protect you,” says Clem.

She walks past him, heading to the fire, keeping her movements controlled. Hayden gives her a look.

Clem waves a hand. “I’m fine. I’ve certainly had worse.”

Hayden gives her another look before they shrug and turn back to their food. It always strikes her as strange, the way things seem to work in the jungles of Taiga. Here, if she says her body can do something, it can. Here, it feels as though she’s capable of anything she focuses on, from carrying heavy packs and learning to track animals through the jungle. It all feels easy, the way things on Fort Icebreaker never had.

Perhaps it’s that the jungle’s so new, keeping everyone on equal footing about what they know. She doesn’t feel like she’s falling so behind if it takes a few tries to get the tent set-up right.

She should be using the extra time to think, to plan, but it doesn't feel right in such a quiet space. In fact the more time she spends away from Cruciat, away from Millennium Break and the politics of Partizan, away from all the reminders of her greatest failures, the more the idea of revenge feels cold, and more than that, it feels  _ boring. _ If she's going to exhaust herself, she'd much rather do it by trekking through the strange new jungles of Taiga, not obsessing over people who don't care about her.

Such a thing makes her feel as if she's not her mother's daughter, but then again, right now she's pretending not to be. It comes far easier to her than she would have thought. Her mother's presence, which has so often in her life felt like a spectral presence over her shoulder, is now no more than an occasional and fleeting thought.

The only one of them that ever crosses her mind without her having to be reminded of their existence via the news coverage of Millenium Break is Gucci, and, really, that's only because of the bright red flowers she keeps having to get samples of, the particular shade of red that Gucci favoured for her gowns.

Clem's wonders if she's seen them. Clem wonders if she’d like the jungle.

  
  


(Apart from the portrait, there’s no other sign of Clem anywhere.

Gucci looks for her, as much as she’s able without making it obvious that she’s looking for someone. Every time they clash with a group of Kesh loyalists, Gucci studies their faces, but if Clem’s in disguise it’s too good for Gucci to be able to see through it, which feels impossible. Surely, she thinks,  _ surely  _ if she saw Clem, she would know.

She keeps the small photo of Clem that she has from their school days tucked away inside her coat, so that she has a quick reference when she needs one.

She finds herself taking it out even when she doesn’t, looking at the half-smile on Clem’s face and wishing that she could reach back, through the photo, through time, and pluck Clem away from the path her life was set on.

And then she tucks the photo back inside her jacket, and gets back to work.)

  
  


It’s strange to feel like an old hand at something. For a while when there was group assigned to explore a part of Taiga or to track down some part of it’s new wildlife, Clem was among them, leading groups along well-worn paths and showing the new security personnel how to set up traps (and, more importantly, how not to get stuck in them yourself).

The exploring part of it was okay, but more and more through the years they felt like hunting exhibitions on behalf of someone who couldn’t even be bothered to do the hunting part of it themselves, who wanted the trophy with none of the effort. She’d looked down her sights at some strange creature and it had raised its head calmly, it’s grouping of eyes blinking right at her.

Clem sighed, lowering her gun. “What am I  _ doing _ here?”

“Melc?” called Sota, “You see something?”

Clem paused. “No. No sign of it. We must have misread the tracks.”

When they’d gotten back from that trip, Clem had gone straight back to Merriweather.

“Next time, I want a botanical-only trip,” says Clem, “No more... creature stuff.”

Merriwether looks up. Clem holds herself still, trying to look as casual as possible in the chair.

“Did something happen?”

“No,” says Clem, “I’m just- I don’t want to have to deal with them anymore.”

“Okay,” says Merriweather, “But the botanical-only trips are… they’re less valuable. And the group would be… very small.”

“How small?”

“Well,” says Merriweather slowly, “It would mostly be just you, unless a large amount of collections are required.”

“I- Fine,” says Clem, “I don’t care.”

It’s the truth, but Merriweather gives her a look anyway. Sota, when they hear the news, slaps her on the back and tells her that she owes them a beer next time she’s in town.

“It won’t be for a while,” says Clem, frowning.

“I got a long memory,” says Sota.

Hayden wishes her well, their expression sincere, and Clem’s throat feels tight.

“I- you too,” says Clem. Her hands shake a little, distorting her signing, but she thinks they understood well enough.

And then she gathers up her things and heads back towards Taiga, alone.

  
  


(Gucci’s looking through files, a tedious but important part of finding new recruits. Sovereign Immunity apparently heard on good authority that the groups who have been helping to explore the new jungles of Taiga have solid crews involved. There seems to be hundreds of them, young and old, battle-hardened and fresh-faced, scientists and soldiers of all types.

She sighs, marking down her thoughts and scrolling to the next group. It’s a small one, specialising in aiding research scientists with collection of specimens, according to the vague note below the photo.

There’s one member of the group in a too-big coat and a scarf pulled over her face. Gucci’s breath catches in her throat. She clicks on the section of the photo, expanding it until it fills the screen.

The photo is terrible quality, grainy, and blurry at the edges, and so dark it might as well be black and white, but Gucci would know those eyes anywhere.

She hurriedly closes the file, staring at the dark screen for a moment before she brings it back up.

_ Melc Farmer _

_ Specialities: Tracking, transporting gear. Can assist with animal and plant classification. _

_ Contact Merriweather in Office 5C for work requests. _

“Melc,” says Gucci aloud. She covers her mouth to muffle a laugh. “What kind of cover identity is  _ that _ ?”

Her laughter subsides, and she scrolls back up to look at the photograph again. Clem looks good, thinks Gucci, there’s something in her shoulders, her body missing the tension that Clem had carried on Fort Icebreaker.

Well. If she’s not out there plotting anyone’s downfall, there’s no reason for Gucci to sound the alarm. It’s not worth causing a fuss over nothing, not when they have so many more important things that  _ are _ actively trying to cause their downfall.

Still, Gucci makes a note of Merriweather’s details. Just for herself. Just in case. Perhaps she’ll need some research done someday.)

  
  


Clem stretches her hands over her head, turning her face up to feel the sun on her skin. For all the added danger that came with trekking into Taiga alone there were benefits, and being able to take her scarf off as she travelled was certainly one of them. Even after years, she never got tired of it, the small break from hiding that the thick jungles gave her.

She shifts the pack on her back carefully, mindful of the plant samples inside, and begins her slow trip back down the mountainside. If she hurried, she could catch the new train system almost directly to the lab’s door, and there was an actually decent hotel a block away from it with a hot shower with her name on it. Maybe later she’d meet up with Sorta, if the lab didn’t take up too much of her time, see what they’d been up to.

She puts her scarf back on as she starts to hear the farming mechs, pulling her hood up. They’d started to put in a surveillance system around the farmland, although it was still patchy at best. Clem sighs. Maybe she’d ask for a position on a research station. They were still pretty basic out there, minimal tracking tech. Maybe she should try saving up for that spaceship again, try her luck in the rest of space like Hayden had done. She'd miss Taiga though, if she left. Best jungle in the solar system, if you asked her opinion (and people actually did, nowdays).

She reaches the train with time to spare, taking an empty seat quickly and holding her bag tight to her until she reaches her stop.

Dr Alec meets her in the lobby as usual, walking with her towards the lab and making his usual tiresome small talk with her about her trip.

“It was fine,” saysClem, “The usual, really.”

Alec laughs, his whole body shaking with the humor of it. “Only you would talk about the jungles of Taiga as though it was a simple walk in the park!”

Clem shrugs. Taiga is never simple, but it has come to feel  _ reliable _ . She knows how it reacts to her enough to feel safe inside it. It feels much easier to navigate through the thick greenery than through conversations with people in Cruciat.

“Before you go, I was hoping you might have time to meet a colleague of mine- well. I say colleague but- Only after a fashion,” says Alec. “You might say they’re the money behind this operation.”

Clem stills. She’d known the funding for the lab came partially from Millenium Break, but no one from there had ever visited, at least not when she’s been there.

She swallows, her throat dry. “Why do they want to see me?”

“I suppose they’ve heard about your work,” says Alec, “Perhaps they want to hire you?”

“Oh, no thank you,” saysClem, panic rising. Someone official enough to hire her might well be someone she used to know, and while the scarf hides her face well enough it isn't any good at disguising her voice. “I have more than enough work, really, I-”

“Melc,” says an achingly familiar voice behind her, “how wonderful to meet you.”

Clem swallows, turning to meet Gucci’s eyes.

“Hi,” Clem manages.

“Dr Alec,” says Gucci, her eyes not leaving Clem, “I wonder if you have a conference room I could borrow?”

“I… Of course,” says Alec, “this way.”

Gucci puts her hand on Clem’s arm to guide and Clem flinches. Gucci blinks and moves forward again, her movements slower but undeterred, to guide Clem through the lab’s corridors to a small glass-walled room.

“Thank you Dr Alec,” says Gucci, smoothly ushering him out of the room.

Clem stares at her. There’s grey threaded through Gucci’s hair now, the same as there is through Clem’s, the bright red suit Gucci’s dressed in making her stand out against the grey metal of the room even more than she would have otherwise. Even with age, she looks the same, immaculate, and Clem straightens, pulling her muddy jacket around herself to hide her rumpled clothes.

Gucci presses a button on the side of the door, lowering the blinds of the room half-way, giving them the illusion of privacy. She takes a small, black box out of her pocket, flicking it on. It gives a faint buzzing-staticy sound.

“In case of eavesdroppers,” says Gucci.

"Of course," says Clem, relieved that her voice sounds steadier than she felt.

She turns to Clem slowly, her eyes running up and down Clem’s body. Clem clenches her jaw, keeping herself still under Gucci’s gaze. It’s a skill she hasn’t used in a long time.

“So,” says Gucci, “I have to ask...Melc?”

Clem huffs a breath, her hands fluttering as she gestures. “Well, it was- I was under pressure, and- I mean, it’s  _ worked _ !”

Gucci’s lips quirk upwards. “I suppose it has. And you’ve been busy- you come highly recommended.”

“If this is a job offer I’m afraid you’re rather wasting your time,” says Clem, “I think working for Millennium Break is a little too dangerous.”

“Dangerous for who?”

“For all involved,” says Clem curtly.

“I see,” says Gucci. She pauses, letting out a sigh. “I- This wasn’t a job offer, but if you feel this is just a waste of your time then-”

She turns to leave. Clem’s body moves her forward before her mind has caught up to it, reaching out to grab Gucci’s wrist.

Gucci looks down at Clem’s hand and then up at her face, her eyebrows raised.

Clem reaches up, her fingers curling around the fabric of the scarf for a moment before she pulls it down. “It’s me.”

“Yes,” says Gucci, “I know, that’s why I came.”

“But no one ever knows it’s me,” says Clem.

Gucci lets out a breath. “I’d know you anywhere.”

Clem presses her lips together, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “Are you… are you going to tell the others?”

Gucci pauses. “No,” she says finally. “No, I think I’ll let them work it out for themselves, if they ever can. It’s not something that ever really comes up.” She pauses again. “People are very thoroughly convinced that you’re dead and I… it seems wise to let them continue."

Clem huffs a laugh, letting go of Gucci’s wrist. “Right. Right, well, I- This has been… Well. I suppose I should thank you for not telling them and-”

She turns to leave and this time Gucci grabs her wrist. Clem’s heart clenches in her chest as she turns back slowly. Gucci bites her lip, opening her mouth and then closing it again.

“What?” says Clem.

“I don’t-” Gucci huffs a laugh. “I don’t know. I just haven’t seen you in a while and I suppose I’m not ready for you to leave just yet.”

“Oh,” says Clem, feeling a little dazed. She looks down at where Gucci’s hand is wrapped around the sleeve of her muddy jacket. “I’ve seen you on the news, you know. You seem like you’re doing alright without me.”

“I am,” says Gucci, “But I missed you all the same.”

“Oh…” says Clem faintly, “Well I- I missed you too, obviously, I- that is, I-I-” She swallows. “You know, I always wished I could have said goodbye.”

“I wish I could have heard you say it,” says Gucci.

She smiles, the sight of it drawing Clem in, their hand pressed between their bodies as their lips meet. She feels Gucci’s sharp inhale against her lips and then Gucci is kissing her back in earnest, the hand not around Clem’s wrist coming to rest gently at Clem’s waist.

Gucci’s wrist communicator beeps and she pulls back, glancing down at it for a moment before she looks back at Clem.

“I-” Gucci wets her lips. “You know, I fund this facility, to help with the farming efforts. I’m- I haven’t normally made a point of it, but I’ve been thinking that I should get more involved with it, spend more time here.”

“Maybe I’ll-” Clem swallows. “Maybe I’ll see you around then. I’ve got a long contract with this lab to collect samples. I always stop by when I’m in the city.”

Gucci’s grip on her wrist shifts, tangling their fingers together. Clem smils, ducking her head to hide her expression and then quickly looking back up at Gucci. Clem can’t quite bring herself to look away, let alone move back from Gucci. 

For once, where Gucci was concerned, she let herself give into the feeling, leaning forward to rest her head against Gucci’s shoulder. Gucci takes a shaky breath in, her body leaning towards Clem, pulling her into a tight embrace for a moment before she steps back, her hands lingering at Clem’s sides.

“So, I’ll- I’ll see you around then,” says Clem, and means it.

“You’d better,” says Gucci.

  
  


(Gucci means it too.)

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi: mariusperkins on most places


End file.
